


everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candlelight

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [6]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, Frottage, Gen, Gender Issues, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, a bump in the road, lady franklin strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: The cab jolted into life, tipping James forward then knocking him back firmly into his seat. He pulled off his hat and dumped it onto the floor beneath his feet, dragging both hands through his hair before letting them fall into his lap.He tipped his head back, allowing it to move with the rock of the cab as he squeezed his eyes shut. A thing he regretted immediately, as the unsteady jerking motion, so unlike the smooth rolling of a ship even when in a squall, immediately made him feel queasy.“Something has upset you.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Commander James Fitzjames & Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Sophia Cracroft & Captain Francis Crozier
Series: let the river rush in [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458220
Comments: 28
Kudos: 87





	everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I kind of wanted to touch on in the OG "Let the river rush in..." fic but didn't have a clear enough idea of it all. So, here it is now (ta daaah). Set just after "Let the river rush in..." in about 1850. 
> 
> Thanks again to MsKingBean89 for sorting out my "Londonisms".

It was a gala for something or other. James had rather lost track, what with the amount of them he had to attend; all of them fading together into a blur of heat and people and champagne, and a constant desire for his attention. 

He had lapped it all up before the expedition of course, but the desire for a moment with Sir James Fitzjames was far more adamant and constant now - and consisted of a great deal of mothers introducing him to their daughters. Not that he was unduly bothered by that, some were very fine dancers, and very witty, and he had always been at ease in ladies’ company. Unlike the crowd of his friends that he had hid himself behind, who were putting more planning into speaking to one lady than the Admiralty had put into the whole China War.

"She's been peeking at you over the top of her fan for the past five minutes," Lieutenant Jopson whispered fervently. "That must mean she's interested, Henry."

"The lady could have been looking at anyone."

"She certainly was not looking at your salt preserved face, Boyd," Dundy muttered. He was peering around James at one Miss Charlotte Campbell who was looking right back at him (with enough boldness to cause scandal if the two had not been previously introduced in _Exeter_ , of all places). 

"Le Vesconte has rather got the dashing looks on you," Ned Charlewood laughed, then reached across the huddle to smack Dundy on the chest. "I say, get on her dance card, old boy, that is how I won the hand of my wife. One dance starts it all."

"If her dance card is full then I shall never recover from the embarrassment," Dundy declared. "I shall have to flee right back to the Arctic under a thundercloud of ignominy."

Boyd and Charlewood looked slightly ill at ease at the joke, but Jopson joined James in a wry smile. 

A bright laugh, slightly too loud to be ladylike, rang out from the other side of the room. James glanced over the heads of finely dressed men, and delicately adorned ladies to find Lady Ross stifling her merriment in one elegantly gloved hand while Miss Franklin continued to speak to her in an undertone, Miss Cracroft looking on in polite amusement.

A spate of tutting and disapproval broke out, which was not unusual at these sorts of occasions - half of the people here only accepted their invitations to gossip and judge - but it did not stop the two ladies and their good humour. Good for them, James thought. Or, rather, good for Eleanor Franklin; who could have the heart to deny a young lady some merriment when she had lost so much. 

James let his gaze trail over the fine, bright ballroom as he turned back to the matter of Dundy’s courting, not knowing if he hoped to see Francis or not. He had gone off with Sir James Ross almost as soon as they had been announced, and James hoped that, wherever they had squirrelled themselves away, Francis was being cheered up by his old friend.

He had been unlike himself for a good week now. James had no idea why, but knew whatever it was had occurred while Francis had been repaying a missed call to Miss Cracroft. The visit itself was nothing out of the ordinary, for they were fine friends, and, sadly, neither was Francis returning home full of tired sighs; running into an Admiralty grandee, or Sir John’s biographer, or even Mr Dickens while at Lady Franklin's home might understandably cause a low mood. It was usually quick to disperse, yet this time Francis had fallen into an intermittent brooding that kept on returning no matter what James had tried to do to alleviate it.

"Well," James sighed as he clapped Dundy on the shoulder. “Come on, let us unto the breach. I shall re-introduce you.”

"You know the lady?"

"I know the Campbell family, they had a house near where I grew up."

Dundy looked from James to the lady, then back again, a cheeky look on his face. "No offence old boy, but I would rather it was my name on her dance card than that of Captain Fitzjames _. Ça a été apparu beaucoup ce soir, eh?_ "

James raised his eyebrows at him, and pretend to aim a smack at his ear that ended in him neatening Dundy’s collar. "Off with you, commander."

"Aye, Sir Jas," Dundy grinned, gently touching his hair to make sure it was in order before slipping off into the shifting crowd.

Dundy's foray into talking with a lady was subjected to a great deal of attention, of which James was not innocent of. Dundy was a fine man, a dear man, who would give a woman a lifetime of jolliness and devotion James was sure - but it was also rather amusing to watch him blush brightly as he seemed to find the lady’s manner as bold as her gaze.

“Sir James,” a familiar voice came from behind him, and James turned at once as if he had been addressed by an Admiral. 

“Lady Franklin,” James felt those around him pivot about to face her as he bowed his head over her offered gloved hand. “It is a great pleasure to have you out in society once more.”

She smiled gently, looking a great deal more like the lady he had known nearly five years ago, than the one he had seen on his return. James had insisted on paying his respects as soon as he could, before he was quite up to it if he were honest, and she had been sat so unusually still and quiet in her black draped front parlour, her large eyes only becoming more weighed down with sadness as she had looked silently over James. 

“It is indeed a pleasure to _be_ out. And to see you fine young men so healthy and vital once more,” she said brightly, which was as much prompting as James needed to begin introducing her, making a point of starting with Jopson who was often conveniently overlooked in these things.

Sir John had spoken fondly of how his wife loved to meet and learn about new people, and conversation flowed easily until the weight of her name and all that had happened brought an impolite pause. James was about to step in and congratulate Lady Franklin on the engagement of Miss Franklin, when she turned her luminous gaze on him and said with her famous self-assuredness. “I risk being being terribly unconventional, Sir James, but I know you will forgive me.”

“Of course, madam.”

“Might I persuade you to dance the Viennese with Miss Cracroft,” she asked sweetly, and James somehow managed to maintain his pleasant expression while a great cry was going up in his mind. “Only, we were speaking of how very well you dance, and I thought how pleasant it would be for the both of you, who dear John held so dear, to become reacquainted once more. For we did so hope for you to be _strong_ acquaintances.”

James tried not to be ungracious and wish this had been one of his more gregarious evenings, where he had turned many a dance card into a souvenir by merit of his lowly name appearing upon it, but he was hard pressed. The mention of Sir John, a man made a tragic martyr for England by his and Francis’ pretty lies, made declining an impossibility, no matter how much James did not want to dance with Miss Cracroft. 

Not when he had no idea of Francis’ whereabouts in this bloody building, nor what his feelings on the matter might be.

James' compliance assured, Lady Franklin moved off through the throng who parted for her like waves before a fine curving bow, and the usual swell of talk resumed in her wake as if nothing had happened. James was still aware of eyes on him - he always had been, for better or worse - as he turned back to his own little group who were all looking suitably unsure about what had just occurred.

“Did Lady Franklin just press you in to…” Boyd glanced up at James and winced. “With the lady who…”

“I think I have, yes,” James said, hoping his voice came out suitably level.

“Would it be indelicate to break your leg again?” Charlewood joked, and James smiled despite himself as Dundy weaved his way back to them.

"I heard you sounding flabbergasted, Jas."

“No, you could not.”

“I know the tone of your voice anywhere,” Dundy declared, then said sagely to Jopson. “I could pick him out above the constant ringing in my ears aboard _Excellent,_ you know.”

“No, you could _not!_ ” James spoke with more firmness than the statement needed, dearly wishing to get all this over with as quickly as possible so he might put it out of his mind forever. 

Dundy quirked a brow at him, his amusement slipping slightly, but he did not press the matter. They were not quite open books to one another, they were neither of them men who wore their hearts upon their sleeves, but they could work out the gist of one another rather well. 

“Anyway,” Dundy said brightly, easing the attention away from James and back onto himself. “I secured two places on the lady’s dance card.” Dundy had a blush colouring his cheeks as he said it, and immediately defended himself as he was set about with undignified smacks on the arm and declarations that he was a “veritable Romeo”.

  
  


* ***** *

Lady Franklin had looked very pleased with herself when James had come to escort Miss Cracroft onto the dance floor. Lady Ross had also, while Miss Franklin, the only loyal one amongst them, had given Miss Cracroft an apologetic look when she had stepped forward to take James' arm.

“Miss Franklin has become a smart and witty young lady,” James said, for want of anything else he might say. He had known of Miss Cracroft before the expedition, had spoken to her in polite conversation, finding her to be an intelligent lady of strong character, who was nevertheless aware of standing and station in a way that made James very aware of the paper foundations of his own. “She is a credit to your late Uncle.”

“Indeed she has,” Sophia agreed. “Although she may have taken too much after Lady Jame for his liking.”

She was always candid, James knew that from both Sir John and Francis, and to hear anyone say anything disparaging about Sir John, after the months of near hysterical praise for the man, made him smile despite himself .

“Have I spoken too frankly?”

“Of course not,” James said at once. “You are allowed your own opinion of your Uncle.”

“I appreciate you speaking honestly, and not out of politeness.”

James nodded, glancing around the room for no doubt the tenth time since Lady Franklin had forced him into this.

“Francis would not mind, you know,” Miss Cracroft said in an undertone as they took their positions, James taking care not to crush her pink skirts against his legs as she rested her small hands on his arms without any show of demurring modesty. “It would not cause him upset. He has no claim over me, and I will never have a claim on you, and you are known to be a fine dancer.”

“It does no harm to be sure, Miss Cracroft,” he said shortly, not really wanting her input on the matter.

“You might call me Sophia? If it is not too familiar?”

“I would not where it would be improper to do so,” James said diplomatically as the music started up loudly next to them.

The first few bars of any dance needed concentration so that no toes or brushed silks were inadvertently trodden on. Miss Cracroft moved confidently of course, her steps unfashionably sure. In fact there was little fashionable about her, James mused as they turned together; she was no porcelain, doll-like beauty; it was rather her singular intelligence and sense of self that made her attractive, along with a certain kind of melancholy that was softened by the bright ringlets that fell against her cheeks, and the cornflower blue of her eyes.

"I had hoped we might be friends," Sophia said as they moved with the dance, voice quiet but resonate. "But I fear I took an initiative I should not have and that has caused it to be an impossibility."

“One day it might not,” James eventually admitted, keeping his mind on guiding her through the steps as he tried to tamp down any visible sign of embarrassment at having _that_ brought up so directly. He was grateful to her of course, for her understanding and quiet support, and for gifting him (quite literally) the means for him to not feel so weighed down by the image of a dashing Englishman he had so carefully built. James still wished she had been less heedless and rash in her action, and was mortified, utterly, that she had knowledge of such a vulnerable and delicate part of him.

“Might?” she asked, and James felt like a child chastened for falling into a sulk.

“I hope - Francis and I have only just got our land legs back,” James said, dropping his gaze when they moved past Dundy who was wholly enamoured by Miss Campbell. “I hope you understand.”

“I do. Even passage to and from Australia was enough to have me forget dry land. Do not think I am not understanding,” she said very purposefully. “If I have no… _personal knowledge_ , I try to at least understand, Sir James. I always wish to be fair and practical.”

“I understand,” James said, dearly wishing for any of the polite conversations about music or art that he usually breezed through with cavalier ease when he danced with a lady. 

“I had planned to be quite masculine and warn you against causing him hurt," she said softly when James did not speak for a good minute, her hand pressing tightly against his arm. "I am aware enough to know that it would make me a hypocrite. You make him very happy. As happy as I think I once did in Van Dieman’s land, and I wish you both very well, and I hope you will love him for as long and as well as he deserves, for he has seen too little of it.”

James was quite taken aback. He knew the kind of love, no matter how honestly felt, between two men was not as sacred or natural as it was between a man and a woman, but for her to say that she _hoped!_

But, no, that was unkind. She meant well. Her concern was for Francis, and James could find fault in no one for that, even if it had come after she had broken his heart and brought him low, right into the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and then sent him to the Arctic.

“I certainly intend to, for as long as I am able, or that emotion is welcome,” he said, making one last elegant turn as the dance, and their conversation, came to an end. He gave her a graceful bow as she curtsied, and then applauded the musicians along with everyone else before offering her his arm once more. 

“The emotion is very welcome, I know this.”

James found himself looking around for Francis yet again and forced himself to stop. He did not want to see him now, he did not want his judgement or even his comfort, or for him to see how unsettled James had become, and blame Miss Cracroft for it. 

“Thank you,” James said with a strange sort of sincerity. It was always pleasing to know your feelings, both romantic and platonic, were returned, but he was so used to fearing any of his romantic notions being recognised, and he had no idea if he should welcome it at all from Francis’ old _paramour._

“My, what a pleasing flush you have gained from the dance, Sophia dear,” Lady Franklin said purposefully when James delivered Miss Cracroft back to her. “You are a most invigorating dancer, Sir James.”

He bowed his head graciously to her, hoping his closed lip smile was not edging towards a grimace.

“Indeed, and most pleasant conversation," Miss Cracroft agreed, then before anyone else could speak she raised her hand to one barely flushed cheek and said. "Only, my colouring may be to do with how airless I find the room. It is rather warm, no?"

Miss Cracroft was as prone to fainting as James was, but the act was bought fully. James found himself once again indebted to her as she was lead out of the main ballroom - all attempts to make them dance together, or indeed become _of a stronger acquaintance_ , ended for the evening.

He walked halfway around the edge of the dance floor, greeting people with mindless charm, until he found a footman standing with a tray of champagne who might let James take a fair few if he smiled at him the right way.

  
  


* ***** *

The cab jolted into life, tipping James forward then knocking him back firmly into his seat. He pulled off his hat and dumped it onto the floor beneath his feet, dragging both hands through his hair before letting them fall into his lap. 

He tipped his head back, allowing it to move with the rock of the cab as he squeezed his eyes shut. A thing he regretted immediately, as the unsteady jerking motion, so unlike the smooth rolling of a ship even when caught in a squall, immediately made him feel queasy.

“Something has upset you.”

James sighed as he let his gaze slip sideways to Francis. He was all palpable concern, eyes bright in the gloom of the cab as he let a bump in the road knock their shoulders together, the edge of his epaulettes pressing into James’ arm through layers of coats and overcoats. 

He had been sitting out on the shadowed terrace when Francis had tracked him down, hoping champagne would drown the uneasy feeling that had settled in his stomach. James had not denied his melancholy when challenged - how could he from his hiding spot between the hydrangeas - but he had not been forthcoming as to _why,_ as there was always a listening pair of ears at these damned gatherings. 

It had taken them a bloody hour to leave too - enduring too firm handshakes and George bloody Barrow while James hoped he was making a good go at hiding how drunk he was.

"Yes. Some _thing_ has. I do not think one can become melancholy on champagne. S'why they serve it, stops one from drowning oneself in a punch bowl."

Francis did that thing he did where he _looked_ at James, seeing right through all the medals and brocade and immaculate kid gloves to the ridiculous thing he was beneath.

He let him look, the steady warmth coming from where Francis was pressed against his side bolstered James for when Francis cleared his throat and said with poorly executed nonchalance. “Ross and I, and a few others, were off making ourselves scarce in one of the ante rooms, and I saw you dancing with Miss Cracroft."

James flinched, tracing the gilded buttons on his sleeve as he tried not to shrink into the shadows of the cab, muttering, "Lady Franklin made me," like a petulant boy.

Francis ducked his head like he was hiding a smile, knuckles pressing lightly into the side of James' thigh. "Do not think I would be upset about that. I have no claim on her, and you are a fine dancer to watch."

James snorted. Sophia had said the same thing to him - which had left him rather unimpressed - and to have it repeated not just in sentiment but almost exactly, _exactly_ , by Francis made him want to raise his voice. 

"I find,” James said suddenly as the cab wobbled around a corner. “That _I_ do mind when she takes it as an opportunity to tell me our business."

"Our business?"

"I will be how I like when she tells me she is glad I make you as happy as _she_ did," James said, all ruffled feathers and tongue loosened by the free flowing champagne. "At least _I_ have committed myself to you _…_ "

James fancied the clack of his teeth was echoing loud in the cab as he snapped his mouth shut, so heavy was the silence coming from Francis. He shifted, taking his warmth with him, and James dug his thumbnail into the slip of bare skin at his wrist to distract from the sense of isolation that always came when he felt a chill in the dark night air.

Guilt was an awful feeling, a cold kind of sticky nausea, and James let it sit as Francis’ mood became pensive and tense once again.

“Francis, I…”James started, then reached out to curl his gloved hand around Francis’ that was balled into a fist upon his thigh. Not since before Carnivale had Francis ever turned away from James, and even now, when he was hurt because of James’ foolish prattling on, he opened his fingers and allowed James to slot them together. “That was thoughtless, I am sorry.”

“You?” Francis said quietly, brow furrowing for a moment before looking up at James. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

James was sure that he did. He was a man who had worried too often about his words and his image not to know that he had spoken wrong and caused insult. He must have, for even though Francis did not love Sophia in such a way anymore, the hurt of those refused proposals could not have wholly faded. Francis _was_ affected for God's sake! James might even say upset, but a sober Francis always became embarrassed if he was truly upset, trying to shift and hide it before allowing its presence. This, now, was the despondency that came with a much brooded on thought. 

“I have upset you. Of course I should be sorry.”

“I am not upset,” Francis said peevishly. “Merely thinking.”

James waited a moment to see if Francis would be more forthcoming, which of course he was not. “Thinking about what?”

Francis tensed, relaxed, then tensed again, and did not answer.

“Francis?” 

“It is nothing. Only my concern.”

“Your concern about what?" James pushed gently. For over a week now James had allowed Francis to ruminate on whatever this was, had given him space and time and patient understanding, but the continued avoidance was beginning to irritate. Francis was allowed his own business of course, yet they were together in all things now, and his burden was James' to help carry and lighten. All these days of patient understanding had only lead to James feeling left outside of Francis' own confidence, that he was being denied it, and the concern James had was starting to become a stinging, wounded feeling.

"It is not to speak of now," Francis said quietly. He passed his thumb along the side of James' index finger, a gentle motion meant to soothe, but James found he was rather beyond that.

"Very well then," James said primly, doing his very best not to be angry as he watched William’s house, indistinguishable from the rest of the street in its perfect respectability, close up on them. 

James took his hand sharply from Francis’ when the cab clattered to a halt, only just managing to keep his footing as he clambered quickly out of it. The night air was pleasantly warm, or it was compared to what James was still used to, and the faint glow of lamp light spooling out from the banks of windows along the street eased the darkness enough for him to find a coin to press into the cabbies hand. He spared the horse a pat like he always did before making his way up the steps, the click of his shoes on the tiles almost drowned out by the sound of a piano being played a few houses along. 

Daisy had the door open before he had reached it, flooding yellow light down the steps, and James caught the way she glanced from him to Francis, and then carefully to the far wall of the passage way. “How was your evening, Sir James?”

“Very well Daisy, thank you,” James said as he handed her his hat, overcoat and gloves, trying not to let his burgeoning dark mood tinge his voice as it would not do to take it out on her. “I trust you had a fine evening also?”

“Yes, sir. I have made my way through a whole chapter in my book.”

“Excellent!” James said, and meant it, but there was a bubble of awkwardness beginning to form in the hallway, so he clapped his hands together a little too loudly and declared. “Well, I shan’t keep you up for anything. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sir James,” Daisy wished him in return, turning to Francis as James made his way up the stairs, concentrating on keeping his footing as he fiddled with the clasp on his dress uniform belt. He managed to catch it before it fell and tripped him, clutching it in one hand as he untied his cravat with the other, the satin giving a satisfying crack as he dragged it off. 

He dumped both on the end of the sofa when he made his way into the drawing room, managing to get a few polished buttons open on his uniform before he gave up.

The fire was burning low, casting long flickering shadows along the floor and up the walls and James pressed his eyes closed against them. He was not even all that drunk, but champagne always made his head feel thick and settled a numbness in his extremities.

Movement drew his attention, the sound of footsteps on the polished wooden floor, and James tossed his hair out of his eyes as he looked to Francis who was standing by his usual chair, hands tucked into the small of his back. 

He looked very well in his dress uniform, James noticed it even if he was on the brink of being cross with him. It accentuated the breadth of Francis' solid, masculine build, and he seemed to stand straighter, hold his head up higher, was less conscious of himself when wearing his well deserved post-captain's uniform. So much so that James almost forgot his irritation, and entertained a thought of crossing to him and soothing some of his strain when he remembered just why it was there. 

“Will you tell me now what has so ate at you these past days? What has so _soured_ your mood and made you so pensive that you will not speak to me of it?”

Francis shifted, jaw clenching and unclenching. “I do not think…”

"You said it was not for talking of in the cab,” James said firmly. “Are we not in private now?"

"Daisy is downstairs.”

"Will our voices become raised so that she might hear?” James threw his hand out towards the closed door. “She washes my damned sheets, Francis, she _knows_ perfectly well."

Francis’ eyes widened as he flushed, the thought obviously never having occurred to him. "That may be so,” he said carefully. “But our business is our own.

If James had been stood at his drawing desk, or the fireplace, then the sound of him slamming his fist down would have been satisfyingly painful and gratifyingly loud. As it was, he was standing by the sofa, and the plush upholstery merely thudded mutely when he struck it. “Why are you behaving like this? What has she said to you!”

“She?”

“You know damn well! Who _else_ could it possibly be? Good _God_ man, tell me what has happened, or how else can I possibly help you!”

Francis sighed as his shoulders dropped, and he undid his own cravat as he slumped sideways against the chair. "James..." 

"Oh, don't _Jaemes_ me," James drawled needlessly, his tongue still lose and his temper still up.

Francis paused, looking over him with a sharp captains eye before looking away to the fireplace. “I will not have this conversation with you while you are _drunk_.”

James blinked at him, feeling barbed words gathering on the tip of his tongue (“Now, that is a scream coming from you” “At least I am not wilfully wallowing in my drunken misery” “You never gave me much of a choice, so why should I care?”), and he bit the inside of his lip to keep them behind his teeth. 

The spitefulness ringing between James’ ears was what deflated him somewhat. He pressed the heel of a hand into his eyes, the shapes not coming as brightly as they once did, and felt embarrassed that he had he let all this rouse him into such aggravation. That he always allowed Sophia under his skin, whether she meant to do it or not. 

Francis was right, of course. If James was going to be hurtful then he was in no state to listen with as much understanding as he wished. For he did want to be understanding, and consoling - he wanted to _help_ and had only done the opposite.

James felt a weight in his stomach as he crossed the room to stand beside Francis who was watching James with as much uncertainty as he felt. He touched Francis' arm gently in what he hoped was reassurance, for although all was not well things were not so dire that James would have them part on unhappy terms for even one night, not after all that they had survived. “Then I shall to bed,” James said quietly, ducking his head to press his lips to Francis’ cheekbone before slipping from the room.

* ***** *

James took a moment to peer at his twisted upper body in the mirror, pulling a face at the lumps of numb scar tissue that still pained him some days, before letting go of his nightshirt to let it fall down to cover himself. He buttoned the cuffs and the collar out of blind habit, bare toes curling into the plush rug like it was sand on a long forgotten beach as he chewed on his lip. 

He dropped down at his dressing table heavily enough to make the array of bottles and boxes and silver things rattle on the polished walnut surface, the lamp light quivering around his reflection in the mirror.

James had already rid his mouth of the cloying taste of champagne but the freshness of the tooth powder only made him all the more aware of that weighty feeling from earlier as he picked up his hairbrush. 

His Nanny had always insisted on James running his brush through his hair ten times every evening and every morning, and to do so mindlessly had always been a calming, dare he even say relaxing, process. At least this night it gave his nervous hands something to do, gave his mind something to focus itself on that was not the boxes in the top of his wardrobe, full of tissue paper and brightly coloured silks, that would be utterly ridiculous to play about in now. What was he going to do, sleep in a chemise?

He paused at the sixth stroke, taking in how sharp his features were in the lamplight, how tired and drawn he still looked, might always look, at the grey hair growing from that first spot he had bled from, and the brush clattered against the dressing table as James put his head in his hands.

Sophia was not cruel. Her previous treatment of Francis was not well done, but she had been young and caught between her independence and her passions and the horrible reality of waiting for those away in dangerous seas. It was not heartless to live the life she knew would bring her most contentment. No, she was not cruel, nothing she did was meant to hurt, but her words, her actions, her soft features and perfect golden ringlets affected James so because she, with her sensible femininity and pleasing countenance, was everything that was right and natural for a man to want.

Francis _should_ want Miss Cracroft still, should have taken that knighthood given by the Queen’s own hand and asked for her hand a third, successful time, rather than live this ruinous life with James. Francis had never been the sort of man to have his head turned by the boys in frocks that you found on some foreign dockside (neither had James, but that was for a wholly different reason), and had engaged in nothing more damning than the usual fumbles of all young officers on long voyages, then he had gone and thrown all respectability aside for someone like James.

The irony of all this, of what Miss Cracroft had said to him about loving Francis, was that if he truly did love him the he should persuade him towards a normal life, and not be so very selfish.

_Maybe that is the answer to Francis’ peevishness_ , an unkind voice sounded in his head, _that Sophia’s presence has made him see the error of all this._

James dropped his hands to the top of the dressing table, keeping his eyes averted from his reflection as he nudged the tortoiseshell handle of his brush until it was back in its proper place. He sat a moment, then stood abruptly, putting out one of the lamps on his way to get into bed, kicking his legs under the blankets to take the chill from them before sliding down to lay his head on the pillows. 

They did not share a bed every night; late nights or early mornings or a simple wish for their own space had them making use of both of their rooms. James did not miss Francis as such now, even when he put out the lamp on his bedside table and plunged the too large, too empty room into darkness, but he was aware that he was sobering up, and with that always came a melancholy of sorts. 

James' wants had never been more complicated than to be wanted honestly, to have someone with whom he could breathe freely, to be _enough_. The first two he had known he would never have, and the last he had looked for in the Navy, which, in turn, had given him Francis - who saw him as he was and cared for him anyway. Who was dutiful and decent and kind, and who would never go back on his word to remain with James _'in any way he might'_ , even if that was no longer what he wished for.

James pulled the blankets up around his neck, now angry at himself for thinking this way. Any number of things could cause Francis to brood over them in silence, and they need not have anything to do with James at all. It was only his lingering vanity that made him think so, his lingering personal fears and doubts colouring what he knew to be true of Francis’ heart. 

He glared at the far wall that he could just see through the darkness, feeling embarrassment and irritation churning up with a tinge of hunger that he had not quite yet unlearnt to resolutely ignore. He let it sit, let it gnaw at him a moment, before rolling onto his side and curling up tight so he could not feel any of it anymore.

* ***** *

"Sir James Fitzjames?"

He turned smartly at the gasp of his name, tipping his hat politely to the wide eyed woman looking up at him from around a smart blue front door. "Good morning, madam."

She blinked at him, then frantically neatened her faded day dress and crisp apron as she opened the door to let him into the lodgings. "Good morning, sir. Please forgive my rudeness…"

"Not at all. It is rather early for guests I fear, Mrs…?"

"Walker. Mrs Walker, sir," she did an unnecessary bob, self consciously neatening the edge of the white cotton cap set on her wiry grey hair.

"Mrs Walker. I have disturbed the house when it is still far too early for guests, so I must be the one to apologise."

"Oh no, sir, it is quite all right. Are you here to see the young officers?"

"Indeed I am. Commander Le Vesconte and..."

"Yes of course, of course. I fear they may not yet have awakened," Mrs Walker explained as she led him up the steep, narrow stairs of the fine old house that had been built when a George had sat on the throne. "They came in rather late last night. From a ball, sir, not a tavern or anything of the like. I shouldn't like to get them in to trouble."

"Of course not. High spirits should be expected in young men."

"Being a young man yourself, sir, you would know more of that than I."

James gave her a tight lipped, polite smile. He had given up on his uneasy sleep with the sunrise and so did not feel particularly youthful, and was sure he did not look it either.

"Here we are," the landlady said when they came to a door at the top of the house. She eased it open, letting watery daylight into the stairwell and making it seem even more dark and cramped. "I hope your business will be conducted smoothly, sir" she moved up a step to allow James into the doorway. "If you require anything, please do call down."

"Thank you Mrs. Walker, and good morning."

"Good morning, sir."

Her uneven footsteps moved quickly down the creaking stairs as James closed the door behind him. The main room of the lodgings was square and squat, its sparse contents making it seem larger than it was. There was little more than an unfinished chess game and some writing implements left on the table, and a pile of books on one of the chairs, to show that it was inhabited. Such was the life of a sailor, James thought to himself as he dropped his hat onto the books and lay his overcoat across the back of a chair before making his way to the furthest door that had Dundy’s boots set beside it. 

Puzzled grey eyes squinted at him through the gloomy light the shutters were letting in, a groan echoing around the small room when Dundy flopped back onto his bed. “Good christ, Jas.”

“Sleep evaded me, so I got up to go for a walk. Frightened myself and the maid half to death when I snuck out of the back door so as not to crash out of the front,” James explained, sweeping the tails of his frock coat under himself as he perched on the edge of the bed, “And I ended up here,” which was the truth. He had merely meant to walk around the park to clear his uncertain thoughts, but his feet had taken over from his head, and the next thing he knew he was walking down the street in Bloomsbury where the surviving expedition officers had taken lodgings.

Dundy grunted, sighed, then shifted over to give James enough room to flop down next to him, being careful to keep his booted feet off the linens. “Deserve the fright, coming all this way to bother me,” he muttered, running a hand through the tangle of his hair. “Jopson was three sheets to the wind by the time we left. Slight fellow, fills up with punch too easy. I went from dancing with the radiant Miss Campbell to half carrying him up the stairs… at least he’s a damned sight more light than you,” Dundy peered down at James when he made an offended noise, and then asked. “A walk? Was Crozier not up and about? He can hardly be feeling the punishing effects of the _doux_ like the rest of us.”

“I did not wake him, so I left a note about my whereabouts. Thought that might be less dismissive than it coming from the maid, you know,” James explained, feeling a little sheepish about the dramatics of all this. He ran his hand over the hardy cotton of the bed sheets, listening to Dundy’s breathing which became so steady that James thought he had slipped back off to sleep. 

He might have, for Dundy suddenly pushed himself up as if he had startled back into wakefulness, leaning his shoulders against the headboard. He cleared his throat, took a sip of the water set on his bedside table, and then asked delicately. “I say, is this to do with your dance with Miss Cracroft last night? The whole thing made you rather… disconcerted, may I say."

“It might be that, yes,” James muttered, kneading the palm of his hand with his thumb. “All I know is that the events of last night are leading to a conversation that I am not sure I want to have." It was such a small thing to admit, and yet James felt nervous to make it. He did not back down or shy away, he had prided himself on never having done so, but all such vanities had been left upon the frozen shingle to be worn away by the wind.

“Well,” Dundy sighed after a moment’s thought, making an expansive gesture at the way James was lying. “As afternoonified as the fine lady surely is, only you can get away with commandeering a fellow’s bed quite so gracefully.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes, I'd have chased her out in no time. _You_ only have to pay the penalty of the tuppence I shall be charged for the breakfast you shall no doubt partake of while you are here,” he said archly, and James smiled genuinely for the first time since Lady Franklin had approached him last night. 

“Awfully decent of you, old boy.”

“I should say,” Dundy kicked James lightly through the blankets, moving his leg to avoid the revenge, and they lay quietly for a moment, James tucking his fingers into the pockets on his dark yellow checked waistcoat so his hands would stop fidgeting. 

“James…” Dundy began, eyes set firmly on his dress uniform coat that was hanging from the bedpost. “I do not say anything about all this _goings on_ with you and… for everyone's sakes, you know,” he said carefully, voice almost dropped to a whisper. “But Crozier was almost as frantic as I with worry when you were laid up and delirious, before the Hudson's Bay Company came trudging over the horizon,” he took a deep breath, then glanced down at James. “He was doing a better job than me of not showing it, but one can always tell,” he paused when James reached out to squeeze his arm, his heart aching for the thread of emotion he could hear in his friend's voice. Dundy cocked a smile at him as he gave his hand a reassuring pat before continuing in a strong voice. “Damfino a fellow easier to feel honest affection for than you, old boy. So I would not worry, for true affection does not wain or crack.”

"Thank you," James said softly. “You are horribly biased. But thank you.”

“ _Biased_! You annex a fellow’s bed and then… be grateful I am too sore headed or I would belabour you with my pillow. Biased!” Dundy harrumphed, and James could not help the laughter that bubbled out of him. "I am your friend, what else should I be?!” 

  
  


* ***** *

James had been saved the tuppence as Jopson awoke in a state of such delicacy that he merely sipped some tea and sat upon the sofa quietly while Little and Dundy, ravenous hoards both, demolished most of the provided breakfast of cooked ham and eggs with toast and pints of tea. James had picked while talking slightly too much, as he was prone to do when he had no idea of the situation he was in, or how to navigate it.

The uncertainty did not disperse on his walk home, that was slow and meandering until he chastised himself for being tardy and selfish. He had gained a respite from this burden of anxiety but visiting Dundy, but it, as well as poor behaviour, was not solely his. Francis would not have run to Sir James Ross for advice or consolation in any of this, and Blankly was somewhere on the north coast selling beer to whalers, so was at too far a distance to give Francis a metaphorical clip around the ear.

James should have showed more of the same forbearance and calmness of manner that Miss Cracroft had always been most capable of. Behaved more like a dutiful wife, he thought with a bitter smile. A thing that he would never be.

That sense of guilt drove him quickly up the front steps and through the front door, dumping his hat and overcoat on the umbrella stand before Daisy could appear, and was off up the stairs taking them two at a time with ease.

Francis was sitting in his usual chair, book open and abandoned on his lap when James came into the drawing room. The scowl of thought pulling at his brow smoothed when he looked up at James, concern clouding back over his face as he looked him over.

"What's wrong?"

"I allowed myself to sink into drunken morbing and behaved…"

"No, James…"

"...I should not have demanded and become angry. Nor fled this morning…"

" _James_ ," Francis said firmly, rising from his seat. "Please. I should have spoken to you. I was wrong to keep this worry to myself, for it affected you also. I was a fool to think it would not," he squeezed James' arms, thumbs pressing gently into his biceps. "I am sorry, I know some of my habits are still un-ideal for a shared life."

"I think we are both learning on that account," James said softly. "Don't quite have our legs under us yet, eh?"

Francis looked as if that was something he had not expected to hear, blinking his perfectly blue eyes up a James. He nodded all the same, and let his hands fall from James’ arms, holding a hand palm forward to let James grasp it. "And I am sorry for whatever Sophia said to you that caused you upset."

"It was not meant. She simply wished us happiness - a blessing if you like,” James admitted quietly. “It is only that I do not think Miss Cracroft and myself know quite how to speak to one another yet. All of this - us two, along with the addition of all Miss Cracroft was to you - is a most _unusual_ situation to find oneself in. One that I suspect she is handling with more grace than I.”

Francis let out an amused sound that surprised James somewhat, and he raised his eyebrows at Francis who shook his head. 

“It is -,” he began, then gave James’ fingers a squeeze before stepping away. “There were a few times when I would have told you what was weighing on me so, but I kept it to myself because I knew the subject of Miss Cracroft is not a thing that has _settled_ yet. I am not a natural speaker, and especially on topics such as this, and did not want to - that is immaterial now, I ended up causing you hurt anyway.”

“It was not you alone, Francis,” James said softly, knowing he would get no reply as Francis had begun to pace. 

“We had never spoken of what had been between us. She was in mourning for Sir John, I was recovering, _you_ were recovering, all was running about between Buckingham Palace and the Admiralty and bloody _Parliament._ A simple friendship was needed so that is what we were to one another. Company has always been easy between us, you understand.”

“I do,” James admitted as he went to perch on the sofa. The sheets of his sketches had been put into a slightly neater pile than he had left them, and James felt a strange mixture of warmth and guilt that Francis had been looking through his drawings while he had been off morbing to Dundy. He wanted to reach out for him, but Francis was holding himself in a very purposeful way, so settled for tangling his hands together in his lap.

“Then a few weeks past, everything came out. All our hurts and grievances and worries. Our affections. Sophia’s temper is quite a thing, it comes on bright and heedless of any expectations of daintiness, and you must hold your own against it,” Francis spoke fondly, then glanced at James and shifted guilty. Not that James would have her spoken of without fondness; he would much rather Miss Cracroft be the sort of woman a man could love as desperately as Francis had, but he appreciated Francis curbing himself all the same.

“It is like when a ship comes into port to be paid off, I think,” Francis continued. “All tools and ropes and such must be left in order, all log books and accounts settled, all belongings removed into sea chests to be taken away ready for your next horizon. So we needed to speak it all out aloud,” he became thoughtful, no doubt mulling over the hurts and dashed hopes they had thrown at one another, and James wondered if his name, or the implication of it, had been thrown around too. “You were mentioned,” Francis said as if reading his mind, a flush spreading up from his shirt collar and over his face as his accent became thicker. “Not in blame, or harshly. Only that I had put aside all thoughts of her out of necessity, out of preservation, and then there you were, and it has been as easy as I thought this could never be.”

James was blushing too now, he could feel it high on his cheeks, and he almost did reach for Francis then, to pull him down to sit next to him, to kiss and pull close so that the bright feeling in his chest would not spill out. “Something must have been said, or happened, to make you avoid her so last night. Or to… make you brood ever since?” James asked instead, the recklessly passionate nature of Francis’ relationship with Sophia suddenly looming over him rather darkly.

Francis pressed his lips together, then sat down heavily on the farthest end of the sofa from James, a pained look on his face. "These are not her exact words, nor were they said in harshness and judgement," Francis said quickly, not making James feel all that reassured. "She intimated that I had come back from the Arctic with a wife, and that she should be allowed her grief that it was not her."

James nodded sharply, the word 'wife' ringing in his ears as he pressed the edge of his fist into his thigh. "Oh?"

"There is no frame of reference for what we are to one another, beyond those Greek texts, and I found myself worried that I - in the way I speak of you or treat you, unconsciously, is the way one would a wife, for want of any other..."

"The dresses must not help," James stated quietly, feeling his face begin to burn at the implication of what Miss Cracroft had said. 

"Those are a part of you I have no say over one way or another, even if I had a mind to - which I do not," Francis said with deliberate firmness. "How you dress, be it lilac silk or torn slops, does not affect how I feel towards you - only that I delight in your... delight, as it were. _Yet,_ I feared the frequency of you wearing them might be to make your masculinity easier on me, that I made your behaviour…”

"Do not - " James scowled, "I like dancing because I am good at it, same as my drawing, and our intimacies are hardly..." James trailed off, something like panic settling in his chest at the thought that he was not _known_ as honestly as he had thought he was. "That is simply what I am. I am those apparently feminine things, and I am also a damned fine gunnery officer, a _captain_ , I walked across bloody Syria and the Arctic, and I am a _good sailor_ …"

"I know this. I know," Francis said quickly and earnestly, grabbing one of James' hands tightly. "But all this - I worried James, that the balance of things that make you the man you are - the person I love - might have tipped, and neither of us noticed. It is foolish now, spoken out loud a week in the future, but I would not harm you, even in this way."

“Why…” James started, and then regretted it. Some fears he had learnt were best kept to himself, for speaking them out loud usually only had them confirmed (“Will we part ways once we leave the Malta?” “Does uncle not write because he is ill?” “Is this scurvy?”), and the thought of his imagined wish of Francis’ for normality almost had him swallowing down his question. "Why did you not simply say this to me?" 

"I tried to tell you. I wanted to, but I feared shameful confirmation. I would rather see for myself than have you need to tell me. Change my habits, as it were."

Shameful. _Shameful_. James took a deep breath. There was nothing wrong in femininity, why should anyone shrink from it when some of the most interesting, most _bold_ people James had ever met had been women. He took refuge in it, did he not, that part of himself that was not all reckless dash and daring, to take the weight of every expectation of manliness, of Englishness, he piled upon himself.

What was a wife treated like anyway? If it was as Robert Coningham had treated his wife, dear Louisa, then James should be content his whole life. But if it was the way his father, in name only, had treated his, then James would understand Francis’ reticence. And there were far more Gambiers in this world than Coninghams.

"Awful thing to be a wife you know,” he said, feet shifting nervously against the floor. “Chained to the whims and the fortune of a man who may do as he pleases with you and then go off and… I - I have wondered, sometimes, if it makes it easier on you to look over and see me in a fine gown while we sit together, but I do not hold that to be a fault, Francis. It is how nature and the world we live in dictates to us how things should be, and we must do our best to fit into it. Or rather, _I_ must."

"I have upset you, and that was the opposite of my intention."

"You have not upset me, Francis. But things are as they are.”

Francis looked at him, really looked, and James let him, knowing that his words had no doubt said far more than their meaning. “I want you as you are, in _any way_ that may be. I do not want you forced into being what you are not. I treasure the trust you have in me, and if these worries of mine have been misplaced…”

“ _Christ_ Francis do not,” James gasped, wanting to get up and pace but found himself pinned by Francis’ hold on his hand. “You should fear this reflecting upon you, you should not encourage this, it is…”

“Bugger ‘ _should’_ ,” Francis pronounced proudly. “Should nearly got us all killed.”

“You are a frightful radical.”

“Says you,” Francis scoffed, hand flexing around James’ when he found himself chancing a smile. 

“I do not know, Francis. Part of me does not wish to know why I am the sort of man I am, but I am happy. And I find no fault in how you treat me,” James thought for a moment, running his thumb over one of Francis’ knuckles. “Even though you cannot marry me, and for all my _predilections_ , I had worried that you had seen what you could have, a wife and a family and life lived honestly, and wished for it. For I will never be your wife in the truest sense.”

“Some naval men are destined to never marry, and I had always known that would be me.” 

“But maybe not quite for these reasons.”

“Sailors adapt to the tide, do we not?”

“ _Eu sou um tolo por você_ ,” James muttered to himself, and pressed his temple against Francis’ shoulder to hide a smile, the soft woven wool of his coat warmed by his constant body heat.

It was awkward for a moment, Francis pulled taunt as if he expected James to change his mind and rail at him. He moved eventually, slipping his arm around James’ shoulders to hold him more securely. “Might I…”

“What?”

“What was said about you by, uh -”

“I shan’t flee from the room or fly into a temper at a mention of Miss Cracroft,” James scoffed, placing his palms flat on his own thighs when he realised he would have to abide by that assurance. 

“Sophia has no ill will towards you James, you know,” Francis said, and James thought of every thing she knew about him, and a few he had managed to keep secret, that were good enough reason to despise him. “Even if she were inclined to, you are far too easy to love. I should know, I hated you for it once.”

Francis’ arm slipped down to curl around his back as James straightened. “And despite that choked compliment,” James smiled softly, reaching out to trace the line at the corner of Francis’ mouth, “or maybe because of it, you are very easy to love.” 

What he wanted to say, the true depth of his feeling for this remarkable, gentle man flushing brightly at James’ close scrutiny, was beyond his wherewithal right now - but James trusted he could see it reflected in his eyes, and in the way James cupped his face in his hands and pressed forward to kiss him. 

He had meant it to be nothing more than a peck on the lips, but it lingered on and on until it was slow, and sweet, and pathetically comforting. James pressed forward and Francis eased backwards until he was tucked into the corner of the sofa with James laid against his chest. He was clutching at the sateen trim on Francis’ lapel, anchoring himself to him as he fit a knee between Francis’ thigh and the back of the sofa, the other perched on the edge of the cushion next to his hip. It was an awkward, contorted way to get into a fellow's lap, but James had done much more in smaller spaces. 

“James,” Francis gasped when he finally managed to pull away to catch a breath. “It is the middle of the morning.”

“What happened to _bugger should_?” James whispered kissing the corner of Francis mouth as he pushed back into the arm looped gently around his back. “Let me… just let me…”

Francis cast a glance at the closed door, and James loosened his grip on him. This was rather daring, rather risky, and he was ready to pull away when Francis slipped a hand into James’ coat to curl around his waist and simply hold him close. 

James shuddered as he took the chance to kiss him again. He had refrained from weeping or raging as men like him (especially those with Latin blood) were apparently wont to do, so he thought he might indulge in this closeness for as long as Francis allowed it.

He was a young man still, even though he often did not feel it, and having Francis’ solid body between his legs had the usual effect on him. He pressed his hips down against Francis’ stomach, groaning at the yielding pressure against his prick when broad hands gripped his hips and pulled him firmly down.

“ _And the sunlight clasps the earth,_ ” James breathed against the slip of Francis' neck bared by his collar. “ _And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What is all this sweet work worth, if thou kiss not me?_ ”

“I can not concentrate if you are going to be quoting Shakespeare the whole time,” Francis grumbled, even though his hands seemed anything but distracted as one made ran over the curve of James' calf while the other moulded to the shape of his hardening prick. 

“It is not Shakespeare,” James smiled, rolling his hips so he rubbed against Francis' palm. “I am simply adding some romance to proceedings.” 

Francis traced James’ cheekbone with the back of his fingers, then slipped them into James' hair and tugged gently to get him to tip his head up for a kiss, the man's inherent tenderness showing through and warming James down to his bones.

“ _How do I love thee? Let the count the ways. I love thee to the depths and breadth and height my soul can_ …”

“Now, that is Shakespeare!” Francis protested.

“No!” James grinned proudly, then twisted and laughed aloud when Francis dug his fingers into the back of James’ knee where he was most ticklish. “Rogue!” he gasped when Francis let go of his prick to give his sides the same treatment, and would have toppled off the sofa if Francis did not have such a steady hold on him. 

“There is that smile,” Francis said softly as James puffed his hair from his eyes. “I had missed it’s brightness.”

James had always been eager for praise of any sort, and to have it from Francis, who never said anything he did not mean, made James as pleased as any doted on cat. He felt his flushed face darken, and moved his hips so his half hard cock was no longer pressed against Francis. “I have missed your lightness also. How foolish we are.”

“Love does that, or so I have been told.”

“Oh have you?”

“Yes I have,” Francis said with an arch of his brow, moving his hand back to James’ hip. “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I would rather just be with you a while, if I might.”

“You need not ask.”

“That is not to say that we cannot rejoin this moment later?”

“If you like,” Francis whispered, fingers tucked under the back of James’ waistcoat.

“ _If I like_ ,” James scoffed. “Such hardships you endure, making love to me.”

“Intolerable,” Francis agreed with a grin, pressing a kiss to James’ cheek as he folded him into a proper embrace that James melted into, face pressed into the delightfully soft silk of his cravat.

* ***** *

Not even someone in the possession of the keenest eye would have known that a frigging had almost taken place on the plush, pink upholstered sofa set by the fire in the well appointed drawing room. 

James was tucked up rather improperly at his favoured end, drawing board resting on his thighs that were smeared with puffs of pigment from the pastels he was using to capture an approximation of the wonderful, rolling greenness of the banks of the Saint Lawrence River.

Francis was sitting in his usual chair, reading out his address to the Royal Society so James might listen to it and make any suggestions that would have it flow with more charm and personality than Francis was wont to write. 

This was the scene of domestic comfort and ease that James found himself in, and it let him breathe as easy as if he had a wall of damask silk and petticoats between him and the world. All was well and good, and he did not feel like a bubble was burst when Daisy’s polite knock sounded on the door. 

“Come in,” James called out, uncrossing his legs so he was sat more properly when she slipped in with letters upon their silver plate. 

“Your post, Sir James. I saved them as you were not here at breakfast.”

“Ah, thank you very much Miss Davies,” James said unthinkingly as he scooped up the letters, still more used to stewards than maids, and shot her an apologetic look. “Thank you, Daisy.”

“Aye sir,” she said with a perfectly straight face, and James almost smiled at the joke.

He opened the bill from his tailor as Daisy stepped quietly from the room, putting aside the heavy letter from William to read later as he turned over the thick stock, Admiralty marked envelope in his hands. 

Francis had seen it, blue eyes still sharp, and he kept his gaze on it when James stood nervously as he popped open the seal. No rumour of another attempt northwards, or indeed nor’westwards, had reached either Francis or James, but he would not put it past the Admiralty to put out feelers as soon as Lady Franklin had come out of mourning. 

He scanned the letter once, then again to make sure, before looking to Francis. “Napier has contracted something unmentionable and is to be sent home. They want me to take over as _Hibernia’s_ captain for the seven months his posting had left...”

“ _Hibernia_?”

“Yes.”

“The flag ship of the _Mediterranean fleet_ ,” Francis said with appropriate reverence for the that shining power of the Royal Navy. The very fleet Lord Nelson had commanded at Trafalgar, with Hardy as his flag captain upon Victory.

“Admiral Parker asked for me,” James looked down at the letter again. “As he remembers my ‘competent, practical, and easy nature’ from China.”

Francis had put aside his speech and was fair beaming up at James. “All as true as if I had said them myself. Congratulations, James.”

“ _Flag Captain,”_ he whispered to himself, the paper crinkling in his hands. “I am only a replacement though, the nearest free captain the Navy had laying about with a notable enough career to…”

“You have been asked for by the Admiral, James.” Francis said as he stood, touching James’ elbow gently. “You have earnt this. This is all your skill and hard work. You are good enough.”

James took a deep breath, nodded, then grinned. “Good lord, I’ll have to tell Dundy, and William...” he looked at Francis, and felt his smile slip. “Only, I had hoped not to have to leave your side so soon.”

“It is only seven months.” Francis said smoothly, turning his hand to allow James to take it. “I am in need of a visit to Ireland anyway, before my sisters accuse me of neglect. And those friends of mine in Florence have been offering the pleasant Tuscan weather for my health, and that city is not so far from the port of Naples,” he peered at the letter, then flashed a gapped toothed grin. “It looks as if I shall be playing the part of the lonely wife waiting for your return.”

James struck Francis upon the arm at the poor joke, then pointed the letter at him archly, working to fight down laughter as Francis looked at him with amused expectation. 

“You shall be my very own Lady Hamilton,” James finally proclaimed, and the high ceilinged, neat room became full right up with their laughter. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So...I may have fudged some history at the end there (mainly for time line purposes shh), but I researched it as well as I could. Also, I did my best to find a dance that Wasn't a Polka.
> 
> The poems are "Loves Philosophy", by Percy Shelley, and "How Do I Love Thee", by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (which is also where the title is from)
> 
> When will I write a FJ POV that's not full of self doubt? Who knows!


End file.
